It's All in Your Head
by EvergreenDreamweaver
Summary: Blair comes home with a migraine; Jim's in comfort mode.


Disclaimer: I do not own the Sentinel or any of the canon television characters, and am making no monies from this story. Any Original Characters belong to the author(s).

Note: This story was originally written around 2005, so technology is not at a 2017 level. Please pardon that fact.

IT'S ALL IN YOUR HEAD

by EvergreenDreamweaver

Jim Ellison, police detective and Sentinel of Cascade, glanced at the digital readout on the microwave, noting the time with a slight frown. _Blair's late – 45 minutes late._ Once upon a time, that might have been standard procedure: Ellison's roommate, detective partner, Guide, and best friend, hadn't always been conscientious about calling home when something cropped up to delay him. But that was in the past. After some frightening situations and heated conversations – _'Sandburg, you could just leave a damned_ _message_ _, if you don't wanna make your excuses to me personally!'_ – Blair and Jim both made the effort to let the other know if they were going to be late, or if something had come up. It didn't happen often anymore, since Sandburg had joined the police force, but Blair had been 'borrowed' by another department for some profiling this week, so he and Jim weren't working together. This morning Blair had said he expected to be home by six at the latest – and now it was nearly seven.

The abstracted frown still creasing his forehead, Ellison stirred the pot of beef stew which simmered on the gas flame, and made sure the heat was turned as low as possible. It would be fine whenever Blair arrived home; that wasn't the problem – and the corn muffins were snuggled in heavy foil in an oven barely above the Warm setting. No problem with the food, although the detective _was_ getting rather hungry, truth to tell. But Jim was concerned, and his concern was edging into worry. Blair shouldn't have been late.

For the third time in a half hour, the Sentinel picked up the phone from the kitchen counter and punched a speed-dial number, only to find himself hearing his partner's voice mail message once again. _Where the hell_ _is_ _he?_ He thought about calling the station, rather than Sandburg's cell, but didn't want to appear to be checking up on him. He set the phone down with a little more force than necessary, opened the fridge and took out a beer, and stalked over to the long couch in the living room, where he reached for the TV remote.

A half hour of _Jeopardy_ did little to soothe Jim's agitation, and by 7:25 he was beginning to feel the first flutters of panic replacing the irritation. Where was Blair, why hadn't he called? What had happened to him? For most people, it would have been a source of annoyance only – but nasty things had happened to them both too many times for the detective to simply dismiss Sandburg's tardiness. Kidnapping, mugging, a car accident, a serial killer, alligators in the ventilation system of the precinct – none of these were out of the realm of possibilities!

A familiar sound caught Ellison's attention, and his head snapped up, alertly. The chugging engine noise of Blair's old Volvo approached, coming up Prospect. The Sentinel relaxed, listening to that reassuring racket. His partner was here; whatever had delayed him was no longer important. He was home.

The relief was short-lived, for although the car pulled into a parking spot – Jim glanced out the window to be sure – and the motor was silenced, no one emerged from the Volvo. Jim was just about ready to head down to find out what was amiss, when he at last heard the car door slam, and – extending his hearing – slow footsteps enter the apartment building.

 _Okay, something's wrong._ Jim listened intently, concentrating now, his concern mounting higher. Heartbeat, respiration, he catalogued them automatically, comparing them with the baseline he knew as 'normal Blair,' and still he wasn't sure what was wrong, he just knew that _something_ was!

The elevator whirred to a stop, and Ellison heard the doors slide open. Again, slow footsteps – much slower than Blair's usual brisk bouncing gait – dragged themselves towards the loft. Jim paced by the door, wanting to yank it open immediately but not wishing to hover quite so overtly. He waited…and waited – and then heard harsh, pained, almost sobbing breaths and a metallic clinking as Blair apparently fumbled with his keys and dropped them on the floor.

"Dammit…oh, Jim, please…." The words were a fervent whispered plea.

Jim swept the loft door open wide and took in the sight of his partner with anxious eyes…and knew immediately that his concern had been warranted.

Blair stood with one hand braced against the doorjamb and the other pressed against his forehead, his eyes screwed tightly shut. His attaché case had been dropped near the elevator, and his keys lay by his feet.

"What is it?" Very gently, Ellison shepherded his Guide into the loft. "Chief, what's wrong?"

The pale lips barely moved to form the words, but the Sentinel heard them. "Headache. Migraine."

 _Uh-oh. Not good._ But at least familiar territory – they'd been here before, although not for quite a while; it had been months since Blair had been afflicted by one of these devastating headaches. Rather than food-sensitivity-caused, Blair's migraines usually were triggered by stress, by lack of sleep or not eating; by tension and exhaustion. Back when he was still a grad student as well as a police observer, it had been much worse; then it was a wonder he didn't have them constantly. _I'd hoped we'd seen the last of them; it's been so long since he had one….No such luck. Damn._

"How long? You were fine at lunch." Still using the utmost care, Jim eased Blair's jacket off, keeping a supporting hand on his partner's elbow as he hung the coat on its hook. He kept his voice soft, knowing from harsh prior experience that Blair was ultra-sensitive to noise and light when one of these hit. _It's so damned unfair,_ Jim thought ruefully. Blair yearned to know what it was like to have Sentinel capabilities – and instead, he only got the bad part. Of all ways for the Guide to experience what his Sentinel did, having a migraine headache had to be the worst in a sadistic Fate's arsenal! _And I can dial pain down, control it; control a sensory spike – well sometimes I can. He can't._

"Since…maybe… three o'clock, I guess." Sandburg's eyes were still closed; he was pressing both palms to his temples as if he could somehow force the pain out.

"Did you take anything?" Jim kept his questions short and to the point, realizing that Blair was barely able to form sentences at the moment.

"Tylenol. Didn't help. Didn't have anything else with me."

"Sick to your stomach?" Jim put an arm about his friend, moving him carefully away from the door. Blair waveringly followed, eyes shut, trusting to Jim not to let him walk into something.

"Kinda….Was earlier."

"Need to…?"

"No…not right now."

"Okay…. Couch? Bed?"

"Bed…please. Light hurts."

"Hang on." Jim steered his partner into his room, casting a hasty glance at Blair's futon to make sure it wasn't piled high with books or other paraphernalia. _Unmade, but habitable._ "Easy now." Quickly, he used one hand to stack the pillows, and then eased Blair to a seated position on the bed. "Lie back – there you go." He didn't turn on any lights; Blair had said it hurt his eyes, and Sentinel vision didn't require it. "Why didn't you say you were sick and come on home? You didn't have to stay."

"Sorry – I'm sorry. I thought, well, hoped, it would get better, and I wanted to finish…"

"Shhh, it's all right. Try to relax." Jim untied shoelaces, eased off Blair's Adidas, removed Sandburg's button-down shirt, skinned off the dark blue Levis. His partner had dressed 'casual' today. Blair was already beginning to shiver miserably; Jim noticed his skin was cool and clammy to the touch. He pulled up the top sheet and blankets and tucked them about his Guide. "We've still got some of the pain meds from the last time you took a whack on the head – think you could keep it down long enough to work?"

"Dunno…. Maybe." Blair had resumed clutching at his temples, biting back tiny whimpers of pain.

A sudden horrifying thought struck the older man. "Chief – you DROVE HOME in this condition!?"

"Didn't have…a choice."

"You could've called—" Jim clenched his teeth on the words. _Don't yell at him now, for God's sake Ellison,_ _help_ _him! You can yell at him tomorrow._ He managed to gentle his tone. "Chief – I'd have been happy to come pick you up, you know that! Or somebody else at work would have brought you."

"I couldn't find…my phone. I guess I left it…somewhere," Sandburg murmured vaguely.

More jaw-clenching. _He lost his_ _phone_ _?_ "But – but there are phones all over the station!" _Don't yell at him, Ellison! "_ Okay, don't worry, it's okay. You made it home safely; that's what's important." He pushed back a strand of hair which had escaped Blair's pony tail, and gently eased the clutching hands down. "Relax, Blair – try to relax."

"I…can't." Vainly, Blair tried to raise his hands to his head again; Jim kept them enclosed in his.

"Yes, you can. Now listen – do you want an ice pack, or is it too far gone for that?" Although the general rule said cold packs helped alleviate headaches, Jim had found that with his partner, once he'd had a headache long enough, or it was severe enough, the cold merely aggravated it.

"Too…far."

"Okay then, hot it is." Jim gave a reassuring pat to one of the chilly clenched fists. "You feel chilled anyway."

"I am. I'm really cold. Jim—"

"Yes?"

"Could you – it hurts to have my hair tied…."

"Sure, buddy. Just turn your head a little – there." Jim loosened the leather hair tie, releasing Sandburg's rippling curls.

Blair emitted a long, relieved sigh. "Thanks, man – that helps."

"Just relax," Ellison repeated, with another squeeze of his partner's wrist. He got to his feet. "I'll be right back with the pain pill. And I'll get the hot pack. Anything else?"

"Tea, maybe….?" The fragile whisper stopped the Sentinel before he was all the way to the door..

"Which kind, Chief?"

"Uh…maybe ginger? That might settle my stomach."

"You got it."

After supervising Blair's swallowing of the pain medication – which in itself was worrisome, as the lack of even a token protest showed the depth of Blair's misery – Jim retrieved his partner's attaché case and keys from the hallway, then set to work in the kitchen, attempting to be as quiet as possible. He located Blair's box of ginger tea bags, and put the teakettle on to heat.

An idea occurred to him. Why not put something in the water for the hot compress? It couldn't hurt, and a pleasant scent might make Blair feel a little better. Aromatherapy, right? His witchdoctor-partner would approve. Feeling daring, he searched and found cinnamon sticks and ginger root. He grated a little of the root, and put it, along with the cinnamon, in a pan of water, which he set to heating on the stove, rather than the microwave.

Realizing that he really _was_ hungry, and there was little chance Blair would want any dinner, Ellison quickly served himself a bowl of stew and got the corn muffins out of the oven. While he waited for the water to heat, he ate, hastily.

Once the pan of water and spices had simmered for a little while, he dropped several washcloths in; after a few moments he fished one out and wrung out the excess water, hissing at the nearly-scalding temperature. Turning off the stove, he carried the cloth and the tea into Sandburg's room.

Blair was lying exactly as Jim had left him, on his back with one arm thrown across his eyes. He moved his arm when Jim entered, but other than that, didn't react to his partner's presence.

"Here's your tea, Chief – careful, it's hot. There's a short straw in it." Jim carefully raised Blair's shoulders and eased another pillow behind them. "Drink some, and then I've got a compress for your forehead."

"Thanks." Blair barely opened his eyes, but tried to smile a little. He sipped cautiously at the steaming beverage.

"That pain pill having any effect yet?" Ellison inquired, easing onto the edge of the bed so as not to jostle him too much.

"Maybe a little. It feels better just to be lying down." He sipped again. "This tastes good."

"Good." Jim thought a moment. "I'm not too sure of acupressure points, Chief, but do you think something like that might help?"

Blair slitted his eyes open. "Maybe," he conceded. He managed a small chuckle. "We're getting far afield aren't we, mixing all these remedies? Modern pain reliever, herbal tea, _shiatsu—"_

"And this," the Sentinel put in, and picked up the warm, wet cloth. He folded it and held it out towards Sandburg. "Lay this across your forehead."

Blair let himself relax against the pillows and handed Jim the mug of tea in exchange for the compress. He positioned it on his head and Jim saw his lips curve in a smile. "This smells really nice – what did you…?"

"Cinnamon sticks and ginger root," Ellison explained, glad it was dark in Blair's room so that his partner couldn't see him turning pink. It sounded so…so… _Good Housekeeping!_ So Martha Stewart!

"Aromatherapy," Blair murmured approvingly.

"Either that, or I had a yen for pumpkin pie," Jim admitted dubiously.

The quip caught his roommate by surprise; Blair let out a choked yelp of laughter. He immediately subsided, whispering 'ow, ow, ow,' at the jarring to his aching head, but continued to smile.

"Take it easy." Jim reached for Blair's arm, trying to recall what he knew of pressure points. "Just stay still and relax for me, Chief. But coach me if I don't hit the right spots."

The amalgamation of headache remedies seemed strange, but apparently it worked. By the time the cup was empty and Jim had replaced the hot compress twice, Blair was more relaxed, pain lines no longer sharply etched on his face. He sighed deeply as Jim changed the compress yet again.

"That feels so good…"

"Good." Jim returned to his acupressure, this time sliding his fingers beneath Blair's head to focus on spots at the base of his skull. "Chief, what triggered this, you have any idea?" he inquired, after a time.

Blair's lips twisted slightly. "Lack of sleep, I guess. Concentrating too hard. Oh, and I think there was something going on with the ventilation system on the fourth floor. Everything smelled like cigarettes there all day."

"Found your phone, by the way. It was in your briefcase."

Sandburg's lips tightened; Jim assumed he was frowning beneath the compress. "I didn't hear it…you tried to call, right? I didn't hear—"

"Chief, the way you came home, I'm not sure you'd have noticed it if it'd set you on fire!" Ellison stopped his massage and laid the backs of his fingers against his partner's pale cheek, judging temperature with a slight frown.

"Jim, I'm positive I don't have a fever," Blair murmured, smiling a little.

"I know you don't have a fever, Darwin . I'm more concerned about you being too cold than being too hot." Sandburg didn't go by the rules when it came to being sick or hurt. Things that weren't supposed to happen, happened, usually without warning. Shock wasn't usual with a migraine headache, but he wouldn't put it past Blair to get shocky just to prove all the rules wrong.

"I'm okay. Just…" The younger man sighed wearily. "just…"

"Hurting," Ellison filled in.

"Well…yeah." Blair's lips quirked into a wan smile. "But it's getting better. I think."

Jim gently removed one of Blair's pillows, since he was finished with the tea. "What do you say, Chief? Think you could sleep for awhile?"

"Oh man," Blair whispered longingly. "I think I could sleep for…a month."

"It's probably what you need more than anything else right now." Ellison stood and picked up the empty mug. "If you can sleep it off, you'll probably be fine in the morning."

Blair reached up and removed the warm cloth with reluctance. "I wanna brush my teeth." Hesitantly, he pushed up on his elbows, only to squeeze his eyes shut and whimper softly as the change in position sent a dart of pain through his head.

"Chief…." Sighing, Jim set down the cup and wrapped his arm about his partner. "Not a smart move, ya know?"

"I can't exactly…brush my teeth in bed, Jim." Blair blinked at him with watery blue eyes.

"I know, but – hell, Sandburg, your molars won't fall out if you skip it just this once, will they?"

"Jim, I spent part of this afternoon puking up my lunch. Believe me, I really need to brush my teeth!" Blair closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, evidently preparing for another attempt at rising.

"In that case… Hang on to me," Ellison commanded, tightening his arm about his partner. "Keep your eyes closed if you need to; I'll get you there."

"Thanks, man…." Blair obeyed the injunction without protest. He let his head rest against Jim's shoulder as the older detective steered him towards the bathroom.

"You okay on your own?" Jim asked worriedly, when their destination was reached.

"It hurts, but I can manage for a few minutes," Blair assured him. He winced away in pain as Jim reached to switch on the lights in the little room. "Oooh, man, ow! No, no, it's okay, it's okay – I'll just keep my eyes closed a lot." He squeezed Jim's arm, then went into the bathroom and shut the door.

Jim _wanted_ to hover and pace; instead he made himself go back into Blair's room and retrieve the tea mug. Then he smoothed the bed, and picked up Blair's clothes, which had been carelessly tossed to the floor. He kept his hearing dialed high as he worked, but Blair, aside from occasional soft curses and hisses, seemed to be doing okay for the moment.

Finally Sandburg exited the bathroom, looking frazzled. Jim hastily moved to offer support.

"C'mon, Chief, back to bed. Sleep, remember?"

"Right…got it. Sleep…sounds good." Blair's eyelids drooped shut, and Jim gave his arm a tiny shake.

"Ya gotta get to the bed first, Sandburg!"

"Ow…don' shake me. Hurts," his Guide complained.

"Sorry." Jim gentled his hold, contrite. "You feeling any better yet?"

"Mmm…little bit, yeah."

"Want anything to eat before you crash?"

The fact that Blair actually paused to consider the idea told Ellison that he was, indeed, feeling better. "Nah man, I don't think I'd better risk it. But, at least – the smell isn't making me nauseous any more!"

Jim shook his head as they moved slowly into Blair's room. "It's not fair," he stated, voicing his earlier thoughts.

"What's not fair?" Blair sank limply onto the futon, eyes closed, and let his anxious-eyed roommate do all the tucking and spreading and fluffing necessary. "If you mean the fact that I get severe headaches, I so totally agree!"

"For years, you'd have given anything to know first-hand what it's like to be a Sentinel," Jim explained. "But when it actually happens, all you get to experience is the bad part! The ultra-sensitivity to light and sound and smell. None of the nice things – none of the good stuff. Just the parts that hurt!"

Blair smiled wryly, the tension lines on his face beginning to ease as Jim laid a fresh hot, damp washcloth across his brow. "Well, I guess that's what I get for being envious of your abilities all these years, huh?" A jaw-cracking yawn followed his reply. "God, I am sooooo sleepy."

"Then just relax and let go, Chief." Ellison rubbed Blair's shoulder soothingly and felt his Guide's muscles going lax beneath his hand. _Finally_ _those heavy-duty painkillers are kicking in! About damn time!_ "Come on, no reason to stay awake, and you'll feel better when you wake up. Promise."

"Okay. G'night, Jim…." Another yawn, much smaller and more subdued. "thanks…thanks a million..."

"Any time, Blair – any time."

The End


End file.
